


Birth, Rebirth

by Fairleigh



Category: Original Work
Genre: Come Inflation, Double Penetration in One Hole, Forced Orgasm, Forced Pregnancy, Impregnation, Non-Human Genitalia, Other, Parent/Child Incest, Size Difference, Very Creepy, Wake-Up Sex, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-05-16 04:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19310806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fairleigh/pseuds/Fairleigh
Summary: She should have drowned the baby in the kitchen sink after it was born.





	Birth, Rebirth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [praxyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/praxyn/gifts).



She should have drowned the baby in the kitchen sink after it was born. Yes, she knows that. _She knows that_.

But it’d been so small and helpless and pitiable, and after it was cleaned and dry, its fur was softer than the finest, feathery goose down, and the membranes of its wings felt more delicate than tissue paper. The big, black eyes were open and staring at her with such … such uncomplicated _adoration_. So instead of doing as she should have done, she just cradled it close to her breast and rocked and sang it to sleep.

In the beginning, it was actually _cute_. It had no teeth, so she figured it could not bite her. It had nothing between its legs — nothing but a featureless slit — so she figured it could not … it could not _hurt_ her. In fact, it looked nothing at all like that … that terrible _thing_ that had raped her. Of course, she was probably lying to herself. She’s always been very good at that. Lying to herself, that is.

Problem was, it didn’t _stay_ small and helpless and pitiable. Within a week, it was the size of a toddler, and within a month, it was practically a teenager. Within a year, it was … it was …

Well. _It was too damn late._ Yes, that’s what it was.

Now she’s trapped in her own home, and she can’t ever leave.

She spends as much time as she possibly can in bed. There’s no place to go, after all, and she’d rather not be conscious. Anything — oh God, oh God, oh God, anything! — to take her away from the … the _thing_ she brought into the world.

She dreams sometimes, dreams that she is warm and protected and safe, and the body of her big, strong lover covers her with its comforting weight. She dreams of softness and gentleness, sweet kisses and slow lovemaking. Delicious shared orgasms. And then … and then, inevitably …  

When she wakes up, it is already on top of her. It is twice her size and more than thrice her weight, and the heat of its thick fur is stifling. It wraps its wings like giant, talon-tipped bony hands, finger-like joints connected by slick, tough membranes, around her back. The wings dig sharply into her shoulders and her spine and her buttocks, and they lift her up off the mattress, and they spread her legs wide.

It lowers its head to her neck, and its wet nose snuffles against her frantically beating pulse. It seems to like her scent today for some reason she doesn’t understand, and it makes a wheezing, whuffling noise — a sign of pleasure that is so similar to the cooing noises it used to make when it was but a tiny baby in her arms that she shudders — and starts to rock its hips against her.

The familiar swelling at its groin grinds into her clit, encouraging her labia to swell and open in response, and she groans at the jolts of unwilling pleasure the stimulus gives her. It feels good. Yes, it always feels so very, very good. It does. God, she hates that.

After a few minutes pass, she is slick and far, far too close to orgasm, and the swelling at its groin has grown larger than a grapefruit, the flesh there pulses and writhes —

She whimpers and tries to twist her thighs away, knowing all too well from prior experience what will happen next, but it holds her firm —

And the … the two _organs_ , twisted tight around each other like the spiral of whelk’s shell, pointed at the tip but thicker than her wrist at the base when they’re both together, push and push and _push_ up into her.

She screams. Huge — so huge — ! She imagines she can feel the penetration in her entrails, in her stomach, in her esophagus, in her _throat_. If she hadn’t given birth once already, surely she would tear.

It isn’t a man; it doesn’t thrust like a man. It continues rocking against her clit, though, above where it penetrates her, like it knows she needs the sweet-sharp burn of it even though she doesn’t want it. And the organs inside of her, oh God, oh God, oh God, they are not still. No, they untwist and unfurl, and _they_ move with relentless, vibrating, undulating fury, and they stretch her inner walls, and they prod her cervix, and her vision dims, her eyes widen, sightless, and the sensation is building, building, _building_ in intensity —

And then it bites down on her neck, teeth marking, bruising, but never breaking the skin, and she is being split apart, and the organs are as deep as they can go, aaahhh, they are in her womb, and they freeze, ramrod hard, the two of them together, side by side —

“Mama!” it cries as it climaxes. Is that a word which comes out of its mouth or just an animal sound, a reflex? She doesn’t even know if her child is actually calling her name, and she can’t really pretend to be certain. “Mama!” it cries again —

It has begun to ejaculate. The twin spurts are like fountains or the jets of a firehose, and they fill her and fill her _and fill her_ , until her belly is aching and distended with monstrous seed, until that viscous, slimy seed is washing back out of her, thick, branching rivulets down her thighs, soaking the sheets, musky and fragrant and _overwhelming_ —

She is coming. She doesn’t want to come, but she is coming, she always, always, always comes, and her muscles clamp down hard, hard enough to _hurt_ , tooortuuure, and she is screaming as she is thrown into brutal, unendurable ecstasy that has no beginning, no middle, and no end.

It always holds her for at least half an hour afterwards. It takes that amount of time for its two organs to shrink down and retract. The soreness and the aftershocks — reluctant tingles of pleasure, yes, that never ending, unwanted pleasure — are a torment.

It lingers at her side on the bed until she is finally able to fall asleep.

A month later, she realizes she is pregnant again. Another monster child of rape. Does it intend to use her to breed an army of its kind?

It looks pleased. That much she can tell. It cuddles her and rubs her rapidly-swelling belly with unwelcome affection.

She doesn’t know what the future holds for her, but she knows it’s too late. Too damn late. She should have drowned the baby in the kitchen sink after it was born. Now, instead, she’s never going to be able to leave because … because _it_ will never let her go, and … and … 

… and there will be another birth.


End file.
